Mandoholic Confession Thread
The following LONG post is what happens when you are laid-up in bed for nearly two weeks, with way too much time on your hands . . . .
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Hello - my name is Mike, and I am a Mandoholic . . . .
My story goes like this:
I lived a very mandolin-free childhood - and not only a mandolin-free childhood, but also a mandolin-free life that extended even into my very early 30's.
My father never mandolined, even though he was of Italian heritage. My mother never mandolined, even though she was born and raised in Italy where mandolining was very common and even a widely accepted public norm. None of my family, friends, neighbors, classmates or co-workers ever mandolined either - even though many of them were of Italian heritage, or even came from various southern states where mandolining was somewhat differently approached, yet as common and as accepted as mandolining in Italy. As a matter of fact, up until I was 30 years old, I don’t believe that I ever even saw a mandolin. Yes, I must admit that I had uncles that had similar tools of vice in their homes; one had a balalaika proudly displayed over his fireplace mantle, and another had a ukulele somewhat tucked away in his garage - but neither one admitted to actually using these items, and I can honestly say that I ever saw either uncle ever balalaika or ukelele in front of me.
After being slowly influenced by certain social surrounds throughout my teenage years, it was in the summer before I turned 17 that I began to dabble in electric bass. With the musical fuse being lit, it was no less than 6 months after that, I found myself opening up to the widespread use acoustic guitar as well . . . and within 3 short years I was getting into bigger and heavier stuff - things like drums and keyboards. In later years, when nights were moonless and dark, and I was alone and perfectly safe from being seen by those closest to me, I would sneak trying small doses of banjo, harmonica, pedal steel guitar, violin and even accordion - but luckily, I was largely unaffected by these later secret youthful indiscretions.
The first steps of my eventual downfall began shortly after I turned 30. I began to run with a reckless crowd that somehow convinced me to begin to explore the previously dark and strange world of a previously little-noticed concoction called ‘country music’ - and it was then that I first laid my eyes on the long-mysterious little nugget known as ‘mandolin’. At first, I was completely unfazed and not even mildly attracted to its sleek and angular lines, curves and dare I say, ‘scrolls’ - but on one foggy, yet unforgettable evening, I finally decided to ask a fellow band mate to give a try of this previously forbidden fruit . . . after all, how could something so small be so dangerous? While on break with the band, and with my back turned towards the assembled audience, I took the mandolin in hand . . . and tried it. To be starkly honest; for a few reasons which were very sincere the time, I was greatly underwhelmed by that initial encounter. The entire experience lasted less than 5 minutes, and when it was done I proudly exclaimed to a fellow band member who stood by at watched, that; “It was kind of cool, but I will never play one of those things again.”
What a fool I was.
Another 2 years or so passed since that original mandolin experience, and as I had initially and boldly exclaimed, I was never again tempted to mandolin again . . . but then, the fateful day finally arrived.
It all began quite innocently, in the simple words of my 6-year old son. About a month before his 7th birthday, he came to me one day and said; “Dad, I want a mandolin for my birthday, and I want you to teach me how to play it.” I tried to explain to the little lad that I couldn’t teach him how to play the mandolin because I myself did not know (or want to know) how to play one; but his response was quite simple - he said; “That’s okay, you’ll figure it out and then you can teach me.”
What else can I say? When your 6-year old boy has that much confidence in you, you can’t let him down.
To make a long story short, within two days I had bought him an inexpensive ‘beginners’ mandolin. Later that same afternoon I began to teach myself the 7 basic major chords. On the day after that I figured out a few of the mandolin licks that we were using in the band I was playing in . . . and within 48 hours, I was hooked! Without ever planning or realizing it, the next 6 years of my life quickly went by in a dizzying whirlwind of mandolin activity - constant practice, countless internet searches for pictures, videos and sound clips of different mandolins, an almost maniacal desire to hear more mandolin players of different genres, late night recording sessions, and an inescapable mental syndrome to buy more and more mandolins.
If it weren’t for the sanity of their mother, I would have named my 3 children Gibson, Weber and Rigel.
. . . but then came the crash.
In almost a single moment, it all ended. The music had stopped, and for the next 11 years, I was basically ‘clean’. Yes, I fully admit that I did dabble with that 8-stringed temptress, very briefly, on a couple of occasions - but thankfully, for one reason or another, I was always able to walk away from my mandolin dalliances, totally unaffected . . . until, again, through the innocent semi-intercession of my son, the monster was re-awakened.
I was working for the law firm that handled the closing on the house that my son had just purchased, so I went to his new home one night to bring him copies of the final paperwork. While standing in his hallway, I happened to look across his living room and saw large pile of unpacked boxes standing in the corner - and perched on the top of the pile was an inexpensive mandolin, with no case. Upon seeing the instrument, I commented; “I didn’t know you still had a mandolin.” He responded, “Actually, it was just given to me yesterday, for free, by a friend who didn’t want it any more. I am not going to play it for quite a while, so you can borrow it if you want to.”
Needless to say, the monster had now been unleashed . . . and the so-called circle of life had turned 360 degrees, back to the pleasurable insanity of being a mandoholic. So - let the dizzying whirlwind of mandolin activity return once more - the constant practice, countless internet searches for pictures, videos and sound clips of different mandolins, the almost maniacal desire to hear more mandolin players of different genres, voluminous postings on The Mandolin Café forums, and an inescapable mental syndrome to buy more and more (and even more) mandolins . . .
Viva la Mandolin!
Yes, My name is Mike, and I am a Mandoholic.
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Originally Posted by MikeZito
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